


Untitled

by JoMarr



Category: Copper
Genre: Arguing, Breathplay, Choking, Covering The Mouth, Covering The Nose, Cutting Off Air, F/M, Gen, Kink Bingo 2013, She's Really Not That Bad, Small Top/Large Bottom, Strangling, Throttling, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:57:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoMarr/pseuds/JoMarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>dubious consent (kink is sprung on one partner, but they could within reason stop the scene at any time), no standard notes apply  <a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a></p>
    </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> dubious consent (kink is sprung on one partner, but they could within reason stop the scene at any time), no standard notes apply 

  
**summary/preview** : It takes a real man to marry a strong woman. And Sybil is freakin' strong.  
 **content notes:** dubious consent (kink is sprung on one partner, but they could within reason stop the scene at any time), no standard notes apply 

     It takes a real man to marry a strong woman. That was one of the mottoes that Andrew O’Brien lived by. Sybil might be demanding, tempestuous, and an overall pain in the ass, but she was _his_ pain in the ass, belonging to him as much as he belonged to her. That was marriage for you.  
True, he’d been testing her patience himself, lately. Going and getting himself shot had definitely been an egregious offence. But what was he to do, leave Corky and Francis to run the money through O’Connell’s turf by themselves? Damned if he was going to let that happen, especially with that sticky-fingered asshole Byrnes tagging along. Was just a pity _he_ didn’t get himself shot.  
But, when he felt the burn and the throb of the bullet-hole in his arm, he knew that he was going to be in for a very, very long evening.  
“Ruined your shirt. How many times had you worn it, three? Are they paying you enough now that I can afford to buy you a shirt every week?” The shirt, with its bloodied, sawn-apart sleeve, had been tossed peevishly into the bin by the stove, though Andrew knew better than to think that she would simply throw it out.  
“Andy thinks he’s so high and fine that he has to deny anyone else the opportunity to make it in this world.” Oh yes, now Seamus had to pipe up from his spot, the lazy sod, and cast a puppy-dog look at his sister. “I could have been a legitimate businessman by now…”  
“Legitimate businessman, my ass,” Andrew said, setting his much-needed bottle of whiskey down on the table with a hard _thunk_. “Like you’ve ever done an honest day’s work in your miserable life.” Already, he could hear Sybil’s voice rising shrilly to her brother’s defense. But between the pain in his arm, the throb in his tooth, and the overall shit day he’d had, he was not in the mood to just sit there and let Seamus, of all people, needle at him. “You can’t even do your own fighting, you have to let your sister do it for you. Get the fuck out, you lazy piece of shit.” He rose from his seat, ready to enforce this sudden eviction of his brother-in-law, wounded arm be damned.  
The wounded arm proved to be the one thing that actually kept him from grabbing the other man up and throwing him out the door by the scruff of his neck. That was because Sybil had gotten up as well, and she gave him a solid punch on the wound with her closed fist. The bright stab of pain was enough to numb his fingers, and stop him in his tracks. Fortunately for all of them, Seamus exited his seat with an obsequious squirming that proved rewarding to watch, and escaped. He would not be back that night, and that suited Andrew just fine.  
“Have you no respect for anyone, anymore?” Sybil shouted, as he made his way back to his seat, and that very necessary bottle of whiskey. “What’s next, hmm? You going to turn _me_ out in the street?”  
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Andrew said. He was going to add, ‘I could never do that’, but Sybil interrupted him with a cheek-rattling slap for his blasphemy.  
“Andrew O’Brien, you are enough to test the patience of the saints themselves. Why, I could throttle you!”  
Andrew sighed and took a deep swig of whiskey. He regarded his wife with his usual stoic resolve, tempered with the warm buzz that was beginning to soak into all of his various hurts. Sybil, however, must have interpreted his patience as contempt. Swift as thought, she straddled him, and wrapped her little hands around his throat, thumbs at his windpipe.  
Her hands might be little, but fuck if they weren’t strong. Andrew’s brows rose and knitted. Now _this_ was surely a new sensation.  
It was a lingering one, too. He felt five heartbeats, then six, and swallowed with an effort around her thumbs. “Sybil, dear,” he began; it wasn’t that he wanted to interrupt her ranting (that was never a good idea), but she really _was_ throttling him. The interjection did not go over well. She shifted her weight, leaning into him even harder, as her grip on his throat became one-handed, and her left hand rose to slap up over his mouth. The heel of her palm shoved his lips together, and her fingers mashed into his nose. He sucked in a breath, and if anything, her grip got tighter. Good Lord, he’d never known a woman could be so effective.  
There was just nothing for it, but to wait it out.  
He found himself counting his heartbeats again. Six became a dozen, then thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He’d never noticed how hard the heart could pound when a person was at rest; the thudding muscle felt huge and heavy and solid, in the middle of his chest. He swallowed, and he could feel the muscles of his neck working against her fingers. So tiny and thin they were, but they felt like iron around his throat, her grip not relinquishing in the least as he forced down his mouthful of built-up spit. All of him somehow felt bigger and thicker and more substantial than it already was.  
He was nearing the end of that last breath he’d taken, and tried to take another. He could get air…a tiny bit of it. But it was as if the air itself had become a solid, fleshy thing; he couldn’t _breathe_ the air, so much as slowly soak it into his nostrils, sort of the way a tree must soak water up out of the ground.  
Even Sybil’s words were taking on a sort of physicality. The sound of her voice was thudding against his ears like fat, hot raindrops, sitting on the surface of him for along moment before they could soak in; he didn’t hear them, so much as feel them. His pulse was turgid and sluggish, pooling up behind his ears.  
It was just the damndest thing.  
He didn’t want to move. He couldn’t tell if it was just his usual, hunkered-down reaction to her dressing-down, or just another aspect of the queer, solid heaviness that he felt throughout him. Maybe a little bit of both.  
He didn’t want to move…but eventually, he had to. He wasn’t a damned tree, after all, and trying to take in the air by osmosis wasn’t going to do the trick for him. His legs began to move back and forth in slow, dragging kicks, rocking her back and forth atop his lap. Her hand drove a little harder against his windpipe, but only for a moment; then both of her hands left his throat and his face, and lowered down to her hips, where his own hands had settled. He found that he was squeezing tightly at her slim waist, thumbs digging into her a little.  
“Andrew?!” Her fingers, which just a moment before had been taking him to a whole other plane of existence, were now plucking futilely at his own vise-like grasp. He realized what he was doing, and relaxed the grip at once.  
“Did you even hear a word I said?” she asked, her tone worried more than cross. Though of course she had a right to be cross with him – he’d frightened the hell out of her, showing up at home all bloody and shot-up. She was the sort who got especially-saucy when she was worried – that was just her nature.  
“Yes, dear,” he lied. He really hadn’t the faintest idea of what she’d been saying for the last who-knew-how-many minutes, but that was just because English had somehow lost all significance to him for that period of time. She might as well have been speaking Chinese. “I’m sorry, love.” If all else failed, he could usually be certain that was the correct thing to say. Seeing how she finally slumped and relaxed against him, this time proved no different.  
“Come here, Sybil darlin.” He ran his hands up and down the hourglass shape of her waist, and coaxed her inward to lean against him for a kiss. “That’s it. That’s just right.” She was his beautiful, wonderful, breathtaking pain in the ass. He’d have her no other way.

  



End file.
